


Love will not break your Heart (but dismiss your Fears)

by ComposerEgg



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Adoption, Autistic Jon, Background Basira/Daisy - Freeform, Background Georgie/Melanie - Freeform, Childhood Friends, F/F, Jonny Sims is gonna break our hearts but I have duct tape, Let! Them! Be! Moms!, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon Fix-It, Reincarnation, Soul Bond, Team as Family, memory shenanigans, the admiral is immortal and you cannot stop me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-12 21:02:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21482800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComposerEgg/pseuds/ComposerEgg
Summary: They stand in the Panopticon, fire raining down from the sky, as the Eye stares down at them.Jon takes Martin’s hand in his.Jonathan Barker-King wakes up and goes to class. He works under Gertrude's rule at the university archives, and subs in when his coworkers at the library, Sasha and Tim, are out sick.It's on one such day that he reconnects with his old childhood friend. The one he hasn't seen in 11 years, ever since their houses burned down. Martin Hussain-Tonner.An Undone-Apocalypse reincarnation AU.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 39
Kudos: 162





	1. Plant Your Hope with Good Seeds

Jonathan <strike>Sims</strike> Barker-King sits at the checkout desk of Oxford University, and curses the flu for taking out both Tim and Sasha in the same week. Abandoning him to cover their shifts, when he _should_ be down in the archives today, learning the ropes from Gertrude.

It’s not a hard job. Arguably, working in the archives is harder. But it’s also midterms season, and that means dealing with an influx of students who’ve realized they need to actually _study_, and he’s running this place short-staffed.

There’s a lull around 4:30pm, and he breathes a sigh of relief as it hits. The 4pm rush is typically the last of the day. No more beeping of the scanner, no more arguing with patrons about the fines they’ve accrued, and no more dealing with the _incompetent_ people who don’t even know how to use a basic search function.

Maybe now he can work on his _own_ homework. He’s got two essays and a test to study for, after all.

Just as he’s settling into the flow, typing the words into the document at a decent pace, someone approaches the desk once _again_.

“What do you need?” he snaps, most of the sharp edge tempered down with years of practice, before looking up.

The person who stands before him is _easily_ 6’5, with wavy ginger hair, round glasses, and is absolutely built like a bear. But more importantly--

“_Jon_? Is that _you_?” he asks, grin on his face and light dancing in his eyes.

Jon laughs, still staring. “Y--Yeah. Holy--” he bites his tongue, no swearing on the job. “_Martin_? When the hell did you get so tall?”

Martin <strike>Blackwood</strike> Hussain-Tonner rubs the back of his head, laughing too. “Oh, you know. Hit a couple growth-spurts as a teen. Fifteen, sixteen, really shot up like a tree. What about _you_ though? You’re so…”

“It’s alright, you can say _small_,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “Unlike _some people_, I didn’t get height genes from my mysterious spawners. Mum still delights in being able to pick me up.”

“Oh I’m sure. She was absolutely _fearless_, wasn’t she?” Martin asks, and Jon nods.

“It’s almost terrifying at times. I mean, I’m 23, and she comes swooping in and carrying me around like it’s nothing.” His brain presents him with a mental image of _Martin_ doing this, like he is now, and then he shoves that thought into a dark, locked box. _Nope, not doing that._

Jon almost keeps talking, but some of the students with books piled higher than their heads are starting to glare, so he sighs. “I’m still on shift for another hour, but we should catch up, yeah? It’s been _ages_.”

Martin nods. “Sure! There’s a nice cafe on campus that we could go to, not too far from here, and I’m free tonight.”

He smiles. “I think I know the one. Sounds good to me. Meet you there?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

* * *

It takes three years to find them.

Daisy and Basira chose to look for Martin, while Georgie and Melanie search for Jon. Because these _foolish_ boys decided to stop the apocalypse together, and die together.

They’d left a tape behind, of course. Static layered over the words.

“_We’re going to do something. If you’re hearing this, I’m going to assume it worked,_” Jon had said. “_We’re undoing the apocalypse. Both Martin and I.”_

_“The thing is,”_ Martin said, false-confidence in his bold voice, only a hint of a waver, “_We’re not making it out of this… Well, not alive. Not how we are now, at least. But it’s okay! We’ll be coming **back**.”_

Then Jon again, slipping into a neutral voice, steady as he explains. _“Time is going to get a bit weirder than normal, and this is going to open the door for a lot of people to get second chances. Anyone touched by an Entity who stays alive will still remember everything that happened, but for the rest of the world… It’ll be like a mass hallucination.”_

_“You don’t need to find us,” _Martin murmurs, softer now. _“But… You can if you want. Jon doesn’t think we’ll remember anything. Definitely not at first, maybe not ever. We’re just going to be little kids, after all.”_

_“Take care of yourselves, alright? Georgie. Melanie. Daisy. Basira. This is a chance for freedom for all of you, too. We’re burning that wretched institute to the ground, with Jonah inside of it, and getting out.” _Jon sighs, a hint of compassion leaking into his voice. Such a struggle for The Archivist to feel anything, and yet he feels more than ever, nowadays.

_“Be safe, all of you. Maybe we’ll meet again someday.”_

After a bit of debate, Melanie had scoffed and said, “_Obviously_ we’re gonna find those idiots. If we don’t, then Jude’ll hunt them down and burn them or somethin’. Might as well make sure that don’t happen.”

Easier said than done, of course. Daisy had managed to track down Martin a couple months ago, using some of the Hunt, before diving into a few rounds of Halo to shake the rest of the energy off. (That had been Basira’s idea, what better way to channel the Hunt than through violent video-games?)

Stepping into this orphanage, at first Georgie thinks it’ll be no different. It’s not a bad place, pristine and clean, but there’s no _soul_. Just another cluster of kids, too alone and small, who need homes that they can’t give.

Until she spots a child with too-big too-familiar eyes staring at them.

When they make eye-contact, the kid stands, and stumbles closer. She kneels down, and this child states, matter-of-fact, “You’re looking for me.”

“Oh, are we now?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. “What’s your name, then?”

“Jonathan. They don’t _call_ me that, they call me a girly name. But I’m Jon.” There’s a hard edge, determination, as if prepared for anything but acceptance.

“Of course you’re Jon,” Melanie says, careful to kneel, careful as she reaches out. It takes a moment, but she finds his hair, and ruffles it. Tenderness wiping away the gleam of fear in his eyes. “Why do you think we’re looking for you?”

He leans closer. “I just know. I know things. I’m _very_ smart!” he says, with what’s _almost_ a proud grin.

She laughs, and leans close to Melanie, so she can whisper, “_Mels_, he’s so _small_!”

Melanie, predictably, laughs at her, and keeps talking to Jon. “Well, you certainly seem very smart. And you’re right, we have been searching _just_ for you. It might take a bit before you’re able to come home with us, but I think you’re just the one we’ve been looking for, Jon.”

So they sit there, and talk with Jon. Playing games and reading stories with him. It’s not long before he gets tired, and crawls into Georgie’s lap, tuckered out.

She leans against Melanie’s shoulder, as they both relax.

“He’s such a _child_,” Melanie says, voice low.

“He really is. But I mean, we expected that, yeah? He’s _three_, if anything, he seems smarter than the average three-year-old.” Georgie says back, still carding her fingers through Jon’s hair. She had thought it’d be weird, seeing her ex-boyfriend/old friend as a child, and it was, a little. But he was so _endearing_. A little kid, free from the stress he’d been carrying.

“You don’t think…”

She shrugs. “He might be, I don’t know how all that super works. But from the way he was speaking on the tape, I doubt it. Maybe it’s just… After-effects?” Either way, she’s prepared to raise a _weird_ kid. Had been ever since she and Melanie realized they might have a future together (because there’s no _way_ they were going to be raising someone _normal_).

“I hope that’s all it is.”

Some of the other kids have been watching them. Georgie’s noticed this. Watching as they play, as they hang out with Jon. Maybe it’s just jealousy, maybe it’s not. It makes her hold him closer. Protective anger like acid on her tongue, ready to _burn_ if they try to hurt her boy.

One of them walks closer now, and narrows his eyes at them. He looks to be older, maybe eight or so. “Why would you choose _him_? He’s _weird_.”

Melanie scoffs, and Georgie takes her hand, to keep her from fighting an eight-year-old. “Maybe we like him because he’s weird. A better question is why you want to be mean to a three year old, kid.”

“Listen. You don’t have to like him, but we do,” Georgie says, glancing up at him. Skinny, fists clenched and shaking. Scared because every time someone else gets out, he must stay. “Just… Don’t be mad at him, because he’s going to leave and you aren’t. Maybe someone else will like you the way we like him, some day. Being mean to him isn’t going to make that happen sooner.”

It’s a long process, of course. Adoption is complicated. But they manage to pass the inspection, and bring him home. Home to a newly-bought house with three bedrooms, right next door to Daisy, Basira, and Martin.

The look on Jon’s face when he sees his own room, with a ceiling-high bookshelf stocked to the brim, and toys aplenty, is one Georgie will treasure forever.

(She’s made sure that there weren’t any Leitners.)

* * *

Martin sits at the cafe, fingers tapping against his leg, grin on his face. The setting sun is shining in from the window to his right, and the soft scent of coffee fills the air.

He’d just seen _Jon_.

It had been eleven years, and Jon had remembered him.

He sips at his tea as he waits, anxious nerves swelling in his stomach. Which was ridiculous, because this is _Jon_. They’d been friends ever since Jon had moved in with his moms. Three year olds sitting together and playing with Legos. Jon reading books to him all the time. Going on adventures through their backyards.

They’d both had to move when they were twelve, though, and, in the chaos, had lost contact with each other. Martin hadn’t stopped missing him, even as lonely fog rolled in.

_His_ moms did their best. But it was hard to make friends at school, when his anchor wasn’t there at his side. Cast adrift in a sea of unknown people.

(The pride club in high school helped a lot, but he still felt out of place. Alone even as he had friends to laugh and chat with, even as he started figuring out who he really was).

With his pencil to the paper in front of him, he tries to focus on some of his homework, and _not_ think about Jon.

He ends up with lines of poetry written in the margins of his textbook instead.

When the bell to the cafe rings, he perks up, and grins as Jon walks in. He gives a wave, and Jon smiles and waves back. Once he’s retrieved his own drink, he walks to the table.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey yourself,” Martin replies.

Silence settles around them, and suddenly it dawns on Martin that he has no idea what to _say_ to someone he hasn’t seen in over a decade. Sure, they’d been friends, but that doesn’t mean their interests are the same.

“So… What’s your major?” Jon asks, and Martin lets out a sigh of relief.

“I’m studying literature right now, actually! All the classics, poetry, you know. I’m considering a few different options, but I figured I might as well study what I’m interested in while I ponder career choices.” He could ramble for _hours_ about some of the things he’s studying, but not right now. “What about you?”

Jon leans back in his chair, and runs a hand through his hair. “I’m actually in a grad program right now. Working on a degree in information sciences with a focus on archival work. I double-majored in the History and English course, along with parapsychology.”

“Parapsychology? That’s the study of weird stuff, yeah? Paranormal events?” Martin asks, leaning forward.

Jon nods, and some of the awkward air slides away. “ESP, ghosts, near-death experiences, and reincarnation. All that fun stuff. It’s really interesting, actually. I did a lot of research on the _apocalypse_, the one that didn’t happen?” He waits for Martin to nod, before continuing.

“There’s bunches about it. Stories are still being collected. Everyone’s got something to say. I mean, an entire _year’s_ worth of memories? Of events that didn’t happen? I don’t know why more people aren’t fascinated by this!” His hands dance through the air, punctuating his sentences with a flourish. Poetry in motion.

Martin smiles, watching Jon as he starts to ramble, sipping his tea. Jon has always been so full of words and energy, if given some encouragement. Infodumping about whatever has caught his interest now. It used to be books and stories, regaling Martin with the plot.

“I’m not in statement collection, of course,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I don’t really get to manage those, though I do read them sometimes. Wrote a paper about all the different ways to classify some of the weirder aspects, because events seem to fall into certain categories.”

“That’s really cool! It sounds like you’ve done a lot of research into it, and I’d love to hear more later. You could send me your paper, if you want?” He asks, a tingle running up his spine at the idea of being able to contact Jon _whenever_.

“O-oh, sure! What’s your email? Or phone number? We should exchange those, yeah?” Jon starts taking out his phone, and Martin does too.

“Sounds like a plan. I’d like to _stay_ in contact this time,” he says with a snort. “No more disappearing for eleven years on me, mister.”

“It’s hardly _my_ fault both our parents decided to move at the same time,” Jon mutters, mock-offended as he plugs his number into Martin’s phone.

“I know. I’m more annoyed that our moms didn’t help us keep in contact. It’s weird, I swear _they_ kept in contact, but I guess I didn’t think to try and get your number, and I know we pretty much ended up on opposite sides of the country.” He shrugs, handing Jon’s phone to him and taking his own back.

He smiles when the text of _^Hello, this is Jon.^_ comes through.

“I asked mom once. She told me no. Said it’d be hard, or that it was complicated for some reason. I let the matter drop.” Jon fidgets with one of the napkins, folding and refolding it.

“Maybe I’ll ask my mum about it sometime,” Martin says. “Mom is still kinda busy.”

“She’s still a professional gamer, yeah? I’ve kept up with Miss Daisy’s career.” Jon laughs. “It’s still _great_ watching a fifty? Sixty? Year old lady _destroying_ all the other competitors.”

He laughs, nodding. “Yeah, she’s sixty four now, and still absolutely crushing them. She’s brutal. She’s told me some stories from when she and mum were police, and I gotta say, I think I prefer the gaming.”

“I’ll have to get these stories out of you sometime, I’d be very interested in hearing them.” A grin lights up Jon’s face, and Martin has no doubt that he’ll be able to pull those stories out of Daisy and Basira.

“I’m sure they’d both love to regale you with them.”

All the tension of the room has eased now, as they laugh and joke. Falling back into old patterns so easily. Martin hadn’t been aware of how much he’d _missed this_ until he had it back. Years of withdrawal making it easier to adapt to the empty ache in his chest when Jon wasn’t by his side. Like he didn’t know he’d been living without oxygen, until he could breathe again.

But now Jon’s here. For the first time since he was twelve, his lungs work, and the pain is _gone_. Gone somewhere, a burden lifted from him.

Maybe he’ll be able to keep it at bay, and keep Jon close, in the coming years.

* * *

Gertrude Robinson sits in her office, looking over the edge of her computer at the boy who has just walked in. Glasses sit sharp on her face, as she scans him.

Still in his goth phase, with black on black on black, dyed hair, and tattoos peeking out from under his sleeves. Oh-so-familiar, but she doesn’t know if her face is familiar to _him_ yet.

“Can I help you?” she asks, steady and ungiving of an inch.

Gerard stares back at her. No doubt about it then. She’d changed her last name back to what it should properly be, as a signal, just for this. It’d be nice, maybe, to be a woman not so alone with her memories.

“Gertrude?” He raises an eyebrow at her, arms crossed over his chest. “Don’t play dumb with me. Your crotchety old grandma trick doesn’t work as well when you’re barely over thirty.”

She laughs, and leans back. “You’ve caught on then, I see. Good ole’ Gerard Keay.”

“Gerry Delano. I’m not using _her_ last name,” he bites out. “Tell me, what have you been up to here?”

“Oh, this and that. Not much to do in the way of battling the Fears, these days. I hear your friend Jon took care of _that_ for me.” She’d listened to the tapes. Found them hidden away in the ruins of the Institute. The rise and fall of the apocalypse, and Jonah being such a _fool_. As if he really thought Jonathan Sims wouldn’t find a way to undo the hellscape. The mark of the Lonely was brilliant, but it gave him the key to becoming a savior, not confined to be an Archive.

“They’re still _out_ there, though,” Gerry replies.

She gestures for him to take a seat across from her, and he does. Less stubborn, this life. “Yes, I know. Don’t think I’m unaware of their movements. I’ve been keeping a close eye on the remaining Avatars. I’m not a _fool._ Jude is still on the move, looking for those two. Mike Crew is still throwing people off buildings--in France, right now I believe. But they’re all _weak_. Low on power and morals, and there’s not going to be another ritual--not in my lifetime.”

With a shrug, he seems to relent. “I guess. Are you really _content_, then? To just sit here and work as an--an _actual_ head archivist? For an actual, not-spooky institution?” His words are clipped, not harsh, but pointed.

“Don’t you think I’ve quite _earned_ my rest?” she fires back. “I’m not caught in the Beholding this life, and I’m not involved. Not yet, at least. Perhaps if the Web decides I need to be pulled back in, I will, but not now.” The Mother of Puppets is not one she can predict, but dancing to its strings is hard to resist. “Besides, it’s not like all my work here is boring. We’re still working on collecting statements from the apocalypse and filing them away.”

“The thing most people still think was a mass hallucination?” He laughs, and steals one of her pens to fiddle with. She’ll let him keep it. This is better than him using her desk as a footrest.

“Everyone wants to tell their story, and it allows me to travel around as much as I like to collect them. It’ll be a whole genre, I expect. A thousand years from now, and everyone will have their favorite stories. There will be fiction invented about it. Maybe some will even get it right.” She smiles, that smile of hers which he’s called bland but terrifying. Equal disinterest in everything, but with her own plot at play. It’s fitting, in a way.

“Well, you have fun with that. I’ll be keeping a lookout for trouble, and I’ll let you know if I see any. But I’m not here to help you with this,” he says, equally blasé.

“No, you’re here because you’ve said you can get Mr. Jonathan Barker-King, your roommate, an in to the archives here. Because you know me. You placed a lot of stakes on the fact that I remembered, didn’t you?” She chuckles. “You were right, for what it’s worth, but that was quite the gamble.”

“Well, if anyone were to remember, it’d be you, Gertrude.” Gerard shrugs, and she has to concede that he makes a point. “You’ll let him have the job, then?”

“Of course. Tell your friend that if he submits and application, he’ll likely get in. It’d be nice to have someone else around with an Eye for the finer details. Now, if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”

Gertrude turns her attention back to the files on her desk, and expects Gerard to show himself out soon.

He lingers at the door, but says nothing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record:  
Mum: Georgie, Basira  
Mom: Melanie, Daisy
> 
> Thanks for reading!! First chapter of my newest longfic and I hope you've enjoyed it!! Reincarnation is one of my fave tropes and I yearn for more fics with it lol
> 
> If you like this, drop me a kudos/comment below! Feedback makes me happyflap! I'm working on this as part of NaNoWriMo so I hope to have more up in the nearish future, but no promises
> 
> [For statements about transformative works based on mine and concrit, check out my profile page linked here!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComposerEgg/profile)  
(summary: I love it all)


	2. just let me go (we'll meet again soon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _They stand in the Panopticon, fire raining down from the sky, as the Eye stares down at them._
> 
> _Jon takes Martin’s hand in his._
> 
> A wedding, a death, a fire, and Tim.

They stand in the Panopticon, fire raining down from the sky, as the Eye stares down at them.

Jon takes Martin’s hand in his.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Martin?” he asks, one last time, because fear has made a home in his heart. A palace in his bones.

“Jon,” Martin says, looking him in the eyes, so full of determination, filled with _warmth_, with _love_. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Sap,” he mutters, but a smile creeps onto his face nonetheless. “We’ve already left the message for the girls, and well… This is really it, isn’t it?”

“Got cold feet?” Martin asks with a laugh.

“Always,” he snorts. “You’ve felt them when we’ve slept. _You’re_ the space heater between the two of us.”

Heart beating in his chest, Jon takes Martin’s hands. The world is crumbling in every direction. A year of this hell has been far too long. Searching, aching for answers, for a way to fix the devastation he has wrought-- no, the devastation _Jonah Magnus_ used him to usher into the world.

Jonah Magnus, who, like the rest of the institute, is no more than a pile of ash at their feet now. Martin had been _quite_ happy to have the honor of setting that blaze.

It’s touching, in a way. Finding the answer on how to set them both free, and Martin chooses to do it for him. No more ash on Jonathan’s hands.

(He’s more than a little fragile, at the end of the world, but he _could’ve_ been the one to do it. The one to bring Magnus to the ground. That he didn’t have to means more than he can express with words. Martin has always been looking out for him, even when he was too much a fool to realize).

The Web’s strings hang heavy in the air around them, coated with the remnants of their old life, of their meeting. But the Mother of Puppets doesn’t have control of all these ties. Jon’s body is linked to _everything_ now, the perfect conduit of fear. The linch-pin in this hellscape. Take him out, and the rest crumbles. The issue is in managing to kill a near-immortal Archive.

Martin has always been his anchor. He never needed that rib; Jon gets that now. And this is something they can _use_. Here.

“Martin, I love you,” Jon starts. “You keep me grounded. When I start to fall apart, you hold me together. Even as I dealt with the end of the world rather badly, you drew me back out of my shell. I promise to be at your side forever more, I promise to return the favor. You are not just a caretaker, you deserve to be taken care _of_, and I will be there for you. I am _here_, with you, as we stand, united.”

Martin is already tearing up, as his hands shake in Jon’s grasp. “Jon,” he says, with a waver in his voice. “I love you. I know, it was a long time coming. Back when we were both researchers, I thought I could ignore this little crush, because that’s what it was. But you’re so _kind_, underneath that abrasive exterior. You pretended that nothing could get to you, that you at most tolerated the people around you, but I could see through that.”

He takes a shuddering breath. “I’m with you, until the end of time. I tie myself to you like I’ve done a hundred thousand times before, in less words. In actions. Every step we take together has brought us here, bound to each other at the end of the world, and I wouldn’t do this any other way.”

The strings around them pull taught, smash them together. Jon _clings_ to Martin. Holds him tight as the web holds them tighter. It _hurts_, the Eye observing this, burning through them as he clings for dear life, but observation just makes it _real_. The Web tries to resist, but Jon pulls harder, pulls the strings of his own design, and lets them _bind_.

A thousand stars scream in the sky, but the roar of the still-burning fire is louder. The pounding of his heart in his ears louder still. Or maybe that’s Martin’s. He can’t really tell anymore, as their hearts beat to the same tune, in the same time.

As the pain dies down, he can _feel_ Martin, there in his chest. An ache subdued by his presence at his side. A new hole carved and filled with love, with his _anchor_.

Jon laughs, hysterical, for just a second. Tears on his cheeks until Martin puts his hands on his shoulders, steadying him.

“Ready for the next step?” Martin asks, worry flooding his voice, and _oh_, he can feel that in his heart. All the concern for him, bubbling over the edges of the pot. It makes him gasp, legs trembling, and all he can do is grip Martin back. It’s all he can do to not drown in the Tsunami of Martin, the whirlpool with them both at the center.

“Give--Give me a second, yeah?” he whispers. “Don’t tell me when.”

“_Oh_,” Martin replies, no doubt feeling the outpouring of _gratitude_. “Yeah, alright.”

They hold each other. Letting the waves of emotion crash down, drowning out the fear, out the pain. Held close together. _This_ is what matters.

Then--

Pain.

Sharp, biting pain. Driven into his chest.

Blood meets his lips as he coughs, his own sharpened rib embedded in his heart, by Martin’s trembling hand.

As Jonathan Sims falls, he holds Martin’s hand, and wishes he could muster the energy to wipe those tears away.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers, as the door in his mind becomes a vacuum, sucking all the fear out of him, waves of _love_ and _safety_ and _peace_ replacing the frostbite of terror. “We’ll meet again, yeah?”

Martin nods. He sits down by Jon, and kisses him, ignoring the iron taste. Ignoring the poison that he takes from Jon’s mouth.

The fire closes in, and consumes them. But there is no fear. No pain.

The world _bends_.

Good cows stand in a field, and no Eye bears down from the sky. No people scream in terror on that day.

Four bodies are found dead in The Magnus Institute, and the world _dreams_ of a year that never happened. A year of fear and pain burying itself deep in their hearts.

A year that will never come to pass.

And Jonathan Barker-King wakes up.

* * *

Jonathan has always been an _odd_ child.

Georgie and Melanie knew this when adopting him.

But that doesn’t change the fact that one night, when he’s twelve years old, Melanie can feel him shaking her awake.

She rolls over, facing him. “Mm, what is it?” she murmurs, knowing the shaky hands as someone who is afraid.

Jon’s voice is heavy, edged with static, and Melanie wishes she could see his face, as he says, “_There will be fire. We need to leave_.”

That gets her out of bed, kicking Georgie awake.

“Mel, what’s wrong?” her wonderful, _sleepy_ wife groans.

“Up up up, _now_! Phone Basira, tell her we don’t know how much time we all have, but we need to _go_.” She tries to keep her voice level, urgent but hushed.

It gets Georgie up, at least. Springing to her feet. “I’ll get the emergency bags. _Fuck_. Alright. Guess it couldn’t last forever.”

Melanie makes sure she’s holding Jon’s hand, as she leads him back to his room, digging out the always-packed travel bag hidden there. Filled with clothes and food and money, and for him, some books he’s shoved into it. “Pack up your laptop and anything else you want that will fit, alright?” she says, soft.

“Got it, mom,” he replies. “Go take care of what you need to. I’ll be out in five minutes. That’s the plan, yeah?”

She nods at him. “Very intelligent, you are.”

And then she dashes, grabbing her own bags and the keys, tossing them all in the trunk of the car. Important documents, keepsakes she knows they wouldn’t be able to bear losing, anything irreplaceable. From the meowing coming from the back seat, it sounds like Georgie had managed to catch The Admiral and bundle him into the cat carrier, too. The stubborn old cat refused to die of old age or illness, but Desolation’s flames might be enough to do the trick, and none of them would want to risk it.

There’s sounds from the house next door, and that reassures her that Daisy and Basira are up now, no doubt going through the same protocol they’d set in place for just this event. Hopefully it’s a fluke, but they can’t take that chance.

If it’s the past coming back to haunt them, with fire and flames, then they can’t afford to wait.

In ten minutes Georgie is at the wheel, and the car roars to life. Basira is getting the last of the Hussain-Tonner bags in their car, Martin bundled away in the back no doubt.

“Can I say goodbye?” Jon whispers, and Melanie sighs.

“Sorry, kiddo, but we gotta go.” She reaches out, holding his hand between the seats, as they peel out, headed far away.

He’s quiet, solemn. After five minutes of quiet, he sighs. “That’s alright. I’ll see him again, someday.”

“Yeah, no doubt about that,” she whispers back.

The next morning, their houses are on the news, as they watch in their hotel room, a hundred miles away. A fire, a roaring blaze, _arson_. But no bodies to be found.

“It was Jude, no doubt,” whispers Georgie, while Jon is fast asleep.

She nods. “Guess we tested our luck too long, staying in one place like that. If Jon hadn’t… _Known_. Then we might’ve been dead by now.”

“I’m worried,” Georgie sighs. “About him, about Martin. They-- We’re right, yeah? They saved the world together, and it involved a _soulbond_. They were both absolutely miserable before they saw each other that first time.”

Leaning her head on her wife, Melanie says, “Yeah, but… We’ll just have to make do, for now. Keep an eye out on them both. I think it might be a good idea to keep them separate, no contact, otherwise they’ll be sneaking out to the car some day and meeting each other halfway.”

Georgie snorts. “That’s absolutely something this Jon here would do. We’ve really spoiled him, huh?”

“From what I understand, we’ve been parenting just _fine_,” she says back, a roll of her unseeing eyes. “It’s his grandma who gave him all that childhood trauma last time. _And_ a Leitner, what the _fuck_? How do you let an eight-year-old get his hands on one of those?”

That gets a full-blown laugh. “Yeah, alright, you’re right. We’ve probably fucked him up somehow, but he’s not _nearly_ as fucked up as when either of us first met him. Man, he needed some _intensive_ therapy.”

* * *

Tim Stoker looks at the new-hire one time, and after the thought of _I’m going to flirt with him so much_ passes through his head, another pops in of, _wait that’d be weird_\--

Why?

He stares. Jonathan, the name tag reads, and _why_ is that so familiar?

“Welcome aboard the library crew, my man!” He says out loud, giving a casual grin. “What’s a pretty boy such as yourself doing here?”

“You’re quite the flirt, Tim,” he says back with a laugh. “Sorry, not in the market right now. I’m not really… I’m not interested, mostly.”

He holds up his hands. “Hey, all cool, no worries, Jonny-boy.”

That gets a snort. “Call me Jon, nothing like that, _please_.”

“Got it, boss. Still haven’t answered my question,” he says.

“Oh, well…” Jon takes out a pen from his pocket, and twists it around his fingers, spinning to and fro. “I’m going to be working down in the archives, mostly. Gertrude’s taking me on as an… Well, an intern, I guess? Assistant? It pays decent, and it’s my chosen field, so… It’s a good chance.”

Tim nods. Opportunistic. Not many people get to work with good ole’ Gerty. “She works in the paranormal department yeah? That oughta be fun.”

“Parapsychology, specifically,” he says back. “With a focus currently in the not-apocalypse. Lots of info on that still to be gathered.”

“So you’re interested in spooky stuff, awesome!” Tim laughs. “You _gotta_ tell me all the weird things. We should do a scary movie night sometime together.”

Jon _stares_ at him, as if trying to piece together some mysterious puzzle. With big eyes, _intense_ eyes, meeting his, looking _into_ him, in a way that he hasn’t felt since--since--

A nasty migraine is forming in the back of Tim’s head.

Jon looks away.

“Sure, why not? You're off shift now, though, right? You should get to your class.”

“How did you--?” he starts to ask, but Jon has already descended the stairs into the archives.

The pain doesn’t go away, as he makes his way through math. It’s all numbers and easy problems. A blur as the teacher speaks, and he can’t _focus_. There’s something he’s _forgetting_. A nagging sense at the back of his mind, and he’d ask Sasha, or his roommate Martin for some help, except that seems like a _very_ bad idea right now. He doesn’t know _why_. But it does.

Crashing onto his bed as soon as he gets back to his dorm is the best idea. Martin will assume he’s been out having fun, and he can sleep this stabbing agony off.

It almost works, too.

_Fire, fire, so much fire._

_Danny--who is Danny?-- Danny dead. The world a mess. Revolving around him in Stranger ways._

_Falling apart._

_Sasha is Not Sasha. Jonathan Sims is a Monster._

_Martin is a stubborn fool._

_The world blurs._

_Explosions ring in his ears._

_Tim Stoker **r e m e m b e r s . . .**_

** **

Shooting upright with a gasp, Tim stumbles out of bed. It had only been a few hours, but if anything the migraine has gotten _worse_.

He runs to the toilet, puking up whatever's in his stomach from that morning. Dizzy as another wave of nausea hits.

“_Fuck_,” he mutters.

There’s a knock on the door, and Martin -- _Martin Blackwood, Martin Hussain-Tonner, fucking **Martin**_ \-- is there, asking if he’s okay, in that kind way he always has.

“Yeah--” his voice cracks. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Don’t worry. Just some bad food.”

“Alright,” comes the reply. “Let me know if you need some help.”

“Got it,” he croaks. And then he’s alone.

Sitting on the cold tile, he holds his head in his hands, groaning.

He needs to _contact_ someone.

Who?

Jon--? No. Not Jon, not yet. It was Jon’s presence that did this to him, no doubt, but he didn’t seem to actually _know_ Tim.

Gertrude, maybe?

Fuck it, Gertrude it is. He has her number, she’s his boss, after all.

^Hey, Gerty, I think my head just died. Absolutely exploded with pain. Not coming in tomorrow.^

Not the most formal, but she hasn’t minded before.

_^Well, I hope you feel better, Tim. Remember to check in if you’re staying out too long. It’ll be a circus here, otherwise, if we’re understaffed._^

“_Fuck_,” he hisses out again, because she _definitely_ remembers. And she _knows_ what happened.

^Mind filling me in on how the circus is doing?”

_^They’re all in bits and pieces. It was quite the display, or so I hear. I have the tapes, if you want to listen to them._^

Of course she does.

^Sure, I’ll grab them on my next shift, sound good?^

_^See you then. Feel better, Tim.^_

He does.

Looking at Sasha now, it’s _bizarre_. A deep pit in his stomach, knowing he _forgot_ her, believed the Not!Sasha had been her for so long. It doesn’t sit right.

As he makes his way down the steps to the archive, he finds her following. A few feet before the door, he turns to look at her.

“Need to speak to Gertrude too?”

She blinks, crossing her arms. “If I do, it’s none of your business.”

A snort escapes him. “Learning how to be abrasive from our _lovely _head archivist?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“You know, he wasn’t really _that_ bad. I mean, I totally got killed during the worm thing, so whatever you went through, I guess I still need to find out, but… He was trying his best,” she says, nonchalant as she picks at her fingers.

“Did seeing him give you the worst migraine of two lives too, then?”

“Abso_lutely_. I thought I was _dying. _Turns out I had!”

They both start to laugh. He bumps his shoulder against her. “God, I missed ya, Sash. Things went _whack_ without you there.”

“Did the two lovebirds ever manage to work out their problems?” she asks, rolling her eyes.

“Not before I got exploded! Shit got _weird_. Honestly, you missed a lot of stuff. I--Well I’d fill you in, but whatever tapes Gertrude has will probably do that for me,” Tim says, gesturing back to the door.

“Listening party?” Sasha suggests, as she steps forward to open it.

“Sure, maybe the trauma of listening to our own deaths will be easier with a friend and some good wine. Gotta be at your place though, cuz Martin doesn’t know.” He steps in with her.

Gertrude looks at them, a box set on the empty chair. “Take it, have fun. I believe it’ll do the job enough to fill you in.”

“Thanks Gerty! We’ll get them back to ya’ when we’re done!” Tim says, giving a wave as Sasha scoops up the box. He can _feel_ her hatred of the nickname, but it’s far too late to stop him from using it now.

They pick up on tape 39, conveniently labeled in order by Gertrude no doubt, for Sasha’s sake.

It’s _awful_.

She’d been spared the paranoia; the depths Jon had been plunged into.

They stop on tape 50, for the night. It _hurts_ too much to keep going.

* * *

Jon wakes up from his nightmare.

Shaking, terror coursing through his veins. Memories he can’t _remember_. He’s not a fool.

Reincarnation was part of what he’d studied, while looking into parapsychology. No conclusive evidence, of course, that’s impossible to get. Almost everything presented as esoteric is false. The most true subjects tend to involve the apocalypse, and even then, it’s not a sure shot.

But they always involve dreams. Dreams of memories. Past lives mean past memories, trying to find their way to the present.

And his dreams have been getting worse.

But that’s ridiculous, right? Utterly ridiculous. He’s being superstitious. Gullible. There’s never been proof of reincarnation adequately presented. To think he had a past life is to give into the folly of the people he criticizes.

(He _knows_, deep in his soul, that some things are true. He can’t discount everything.

But there’s no need to let this knowledge consume him.)

Jon sighs, sitting up. It wouldn’t do to dwell on this, not when he has a test today that he needs to last-minute cram for.

His phone lights up by his side, though, and he picks it up. Blinking blearily at the screen in confusion before _yesterday_ hits him.

_^Hey Jon! Good morning! How are you doing?^_

From the contact of _Martin!!_

A smile spreads over his face, dragging him out of bed and through his morning routine. Food. Toothbrushing. Clothes. Heading out for his class _early_, instead of almost late for once.

^I’m good, Martin. I have a test today, soon. Going to study for that. How about you?^

The reply comes almost instantly, which drops a small pit in his stomach, because martin’s first text had been two hours before Jon had gotten up.

_^I’m good too! Thanks for asking! I’m working on an essay right now, but nothing super important.^_

^Well, don’t let me keep you from your work.^ He’d feel bad if he were the reason Martin got a bad grade. It’d be _awful_.

_^Nah, I don’t really need to worry about this class. I’m passing with a 96% right now, and I’m one of the only people who talks in class. Like, during the discussions and all!^_

^Teacher’s pet, are you?^

Jon can _picture_ the little laugh Martin does at this, scrunched up nose and crinkled eyes. ^_Better than failing, that’s for sure. You’re absolutely someone who sits in the back of the class and does his best to avoid conversation, though, aren’t you?^_

He chuckles, smiling. Then he rubs his neck, glancing around as he walks to make sure no one is staring. There’s the usual bustle of people, but no one looking at him. Just leaves falling in the breeze, and the nip of the autumn air. He’s good, so far, but it’d be dangerous to keep this up inside.

(He might not _care_, because this is _Martin_. Self-consciousness be damned.)

^Yeah, you’ve got me pinned.^ he says back.

^I hide behind my laptop screen whenever I can, studiously take notes, and never talk to another living soul if I can avoid it.^

^_Wow, what a nerd :P^_

_^Can’t believe my best friend is a nerd :P^_

Jon has to take a second to pause, sigh, and roll his eyes, because _Martin, please_. ^You mean the same friend who would spend hours recounting books he’d read to you in perfect detail? Or the friend who once asked their teacher for more homework because he was _bored_? That friend?^

_^Absolutely.^_

_^What a shock.^_

_^I’ve been completely betrayed by your sudden nerdom that has arisen in the past 11 years that I have totally never encountered before.^_

That tugs a full-fledged laugh out of Jon, and he has to duck onto a less-used path behind a building to hide for a full minute, because _Jonathan Sims_ does _not_ randomly laugh at his phone in public.

When the coast is clear, he keeps walking, and slips into the building with the ease of someone whose had classes in it for three years already. He navigates to his classroom and takes his (unofficial) seat in the back, pulling out his notes and pretending like he’s studying, not thinking about Martin.

^I feel like I’m not the only nerd in this conversation.” The text sends as a quick reply, and then he follows it up with: ^Also, in class now. Going to study. Chat later?^

^Of course! Let me know when you’re free! See ya :D^

He rubs his face, setting his phone to silent and in his bag, trying to scrub away the blush that _must_ be rising to his cheeks.

Martin is… So _Martin_.

Over the past decade Jon had wanted so much to reconnect with his old friend. An ache in his chest, screaming until all he knew was the noise, yearning to find him. Fixated on the missing piece until the misery became background radiation in his life, his new normal. Settled deep in his bones. Uncomfortable weight buried in his skin, just enough to fade into his usual, everyday pain. _There_, but not the _focus_.

(Not usually. There were some days, some nights, where the loss of Martin dug its claws in. His body full of hooks and they _pulled_. As if trying to tug him closer. Back to Martin.

He almost followed it, a few times. Deep in his mind, a haze of the gaping hole, guiding his feet onto an unknown path. But he never went far. Always turned around and walked back home. His moms raised him well, he _knows_ better than to be alone.

College the first year was scary. Terror welling in his throat. New people, new places. Too many _unknowns_.)

One small, niggling little voice in Jon’s head, a voice filled with the needles of anxiety, had tried to tell him that Martin wouldn’t be the same. That _if _they ever reunited, Martin wouldn’t _care_ about him. Or maybe, maybe the years had warped his thoughts, his understanding of who his friend was. An idealized image instead of the real person.

But he also remembers Martin fretting over him when Jon fell ill. Spending the night out of worry, sneaking in through his window to bring him medicine at midnight.

He remembers Martin listening as Jon rambled, and then rambling in turn. Jon knows _so much_ about spiders to this day, because Martin had found a book and read all about it to him.

He remembers the poetry, still scrawled in notebooks and on pieces of paper he refused to throw away. Packed into that bag as from the fire they escaped.

That voice in his head never held any _real_ sway.

But it’s nice to be proven right, for a change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BAM! Chapter 2!!! Took longer than planned because life is like that but oh well lol
> 
> If you liked this, drop me a comment below! I love getting feedback!
> 
> [For statements about transformative works based on mine and concrit, check out my profile page linked here!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComposerEgg/profile)  
(summary: I love it all)


End file.
